


The Adventure Of The Grosvenor Square Removal Van

by Cerdic519



Series: Further Adventures Of Mr. Sherlock Holmes [21]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221A Baker Street, 221B Baker Street, Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/M, Heart Attacks, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Slow Burn, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 19:40:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15031820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Moving house is a traumatic enough experience without finding a little extra amongst your possessions – especially when that little extra is a dead body! Fortunately the ladies afflicted are moving into 221A Baker Street, where the neighbours are more than helpful.





	The Adventure Of The Grosvenor Square Removal Van

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maculosus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maculosus/gifts).



_Introduction by Sir Sherrinford Holmes, Baronet_

Watson was out of the country for the whole of 'Eighty-Five, wooing and winning Miss Constance Adams to his wife over in the United States. Although his acquaintance with my youngest brother had thus far been brief, I noted from Sherlock's letters and the occasional visit that he (unreasonably in my opinion) felt abandoned by his friend. I also noted, but did not comment on the fact, that he did not invite anyone else to share his rooms during that time, despite the fact that Watson would surely seek a marital home of his own on his return. That year saw Sherlock involved in several interesting cases, and it is regrettable that only one can now be published. It does however serve to shed a light on one of the most famous addresses in London and was most definitely the only case in which death came to Baker Street – except that it called at 221A, not 221B. 

_Note: At the time this story was set, the term 'van' still referred to a horse-drawn vehicle._

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

_Narration by Mr. William Sherlock Scott Holmes, Esquire_

Bereft of Friend Watson, I had to write this case up myself. Much later in our acquaintance I showed him my notes, and... well, he has never been good at concealing his emotions, but he clearly thought my literary efforts decidedly substandard. I did not as he later claimed 'go off in a huff', although I did later observe that of the few cases published that I did narrate myself, the reception from the 'Sherlockians' was rather less than wholehearted. It probably served me right for being so critical of my friend's initial writing efforts.

One of many 'emendations' that Watson suggested was to use the opportunity presented by this case to narrate something of the history of our residence, as it was something that he had often been asked about. 221B was as one looked at it from the street the right-hand third (i.e. the southern end) of what had been one of the original houses erected when builder Mr. William Baker had laid the street out in 1755, during the reign of King George the Second. Mr. Edward Harley, who had inherited the title Earl Oxford and Mortimer that same year, wished to mark his accession by obtaining a three-storey country house near the City and paid for the building of this one of Mr. Baker's planned properties, which due to his Welsh roots was known as Glendower Mansion. 

With the relentless expansion of the Great Wen ever northwards the house acquired its number (221) some time after the turn of the nineteenth century. In 1853 the death of Edward Harley's great-nephew Alfred led to the earldom becoming extinct, and the house was sold to a developer who divided it into three family dwellings which he numbered 221, 221A and 221B. The third of these subsequently passed into the possession of Mr. and Mrs. Hudson, which was how we found our own home there. And this story concerns one of our neighbours in 221A (not directly; our rooms lay on the opposite side from the dividing wall, and their rooms were at the back). Neighbours who, on moving in, found a most unwelcome addition to their worldly goods. 

A dead body.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

This case was brought to my attention by our illustrious landlady, who knocked at our door one day and was bade to enter. I looked up in surprise; I was sure that I had not heard the usual bell that presaged her advent with a client.

“I was wondering, Mr. Holmes”, she said, “if you could see your way to entertaining a visit from the two ladies who have just moved in next door.”

I had seen the 'Grosvenor Square Furniture And Household Removals Company Incorporated' van parked outside next door when I had come back from my walk, and besides noting that they needed a considerably truncated company name had thought little more of it at the time.

“Of course, Mrs. Hudson”, I smiled. “Did they mention what it is about?”

She shook her head.

“They are two elderly ladies, Mr. Holmes, and I would go so far to say they are positively _distressed”_ , she said. “Beth – Mrs. Harrison – advised that they call the police over the matter, but they were horrified at the idea so she suggested that they might see you first, and you could then see Inspector Morton for them.”

She was right to be so cautious, I thought. Morton was a good fellow and an above-average policeman, but he had a tendency to bark at members of the public in a way that alarmed some of them.

“It sounds most intriguing”, I said. “Pray send them up directly.”

She nodded and left. A few moments later she returned with my visitors. They were both indeed elderly, but clearly ladies of quality. They were also, as our landlady had said, quite distressed. I pulled chairs out for them at the table whilst Mrs. Hudson left, promising to send up tea and cakes shortly.

“It is so kind of you to see us like this, Mr. Holmes”, the shorter of the two ladies said. “Charlotte and I.... our new landlady said that you sometimes help out in certain matters of a criminal nature.....”

(She made it sound like I was a hardened criminal!). 

“My name is Charlotte Beringar”, the taller lady said, “and this is my sister Letitia. We were due to move into our new rooms next door today, but... but....”

She ground to a halt and looked appealingly at her sister, who again took up the tale. 

“We used to own a small house in Grosvenor Square”, Letitia Beringar said. “It was old, run-down and falling to pieces around us, but we loved it. However it was becoming too much for us, especially after our only tenant came into a small inheritance and moved out. Then we had a piece of good luck. A representative of the Belgian government, a Mr. Vermery or some such name, offered to buy the house at considerably above its market value.”

“Why was that?” I asked suspiciously.

“His government was looking to obtain an address in the Square”, Letitia Beringar explained. “We were very fortunate; the Smiths next door had provisionally accepted the offer made to them, and our foreign purchaser told us that his country planned to knock the two houses into one, although they will need one of the other adjoining properties to make it larger still. He had to return to Belgium before the sale went through, but another gentleman took over, a Mr. Fallaheim or something. I can never remember foreign names, even though our capital seems to be getting full of them.”

“We hired a company to move all our worldly goods from the old house”, Miss Charlotte Beringar continued (I felt like I was at one of those tennis matches as I had to keep switching to whichever of them was speaking). “Or at least the ones that we wanted to keep; when we sorted through our belongings it was amazing just how many accoutrements we had acquired over the years.”

“Yes”, her sister put in, “and _that_ was what caused the trouble!”

“How so?” I asked politely.

“We found that our old wardrobe had become rotten at the back”, Charlotte Beringar said, “so we decided to acquire a new one. I had recently visited a friend who lives near the docks and had seen a most delightful old piece in an antiques shop owned by a business acquaintance of hers. The man there – a strange-looking gentleman but I suppose he could not help that - kindly gave me the measurements so I could make sure that it would fit in our new home, and when it did we decided to buy it. The removals men went to the shop to pick it up for us this morning then came back to the square to collect the rest of our belongings. Once they were here, they placed everything in the rooms as we had requested and left.”

“I did not like that Mr. Gull”, her sister said sourly. “He was not at all careful with the boxes. And he smelt of _alcohol!”_

She might have well accused the man of murdering a puppy in front of her, from her tone! I bit back a smile.

“That is true”, Charlotte Beringar admitted. “Howsoever, we then set about starting to unpack, I opened our new wardrobe and.... and....”

Her sister reached a supporting hand across. 

“And inside was a man's _body_ , Mr. Holmes! Quite dead!”

I nodded sympathetically and thought for a short while.

“Ladies”, I said, “you have undergone a terrible experience, and through absolutely no fault of your own. Clearly this matter must be investigated by the police.”

Both ladies shuddered delicately at that prospect.

“I shall send a message round to my good friend Inspector Morton”, I said reassuringly. “He is _most_ discreet and I trust him implicitly on matters like this. Once he arrives, we shall examine the body more closely. Am I to assume that the poor man is still in your rooms?”

Both ladies nodded fitfully.

“That is good”, I said with a smile. I took a card from my card-case and wrote something on the back of it. “I am afraid that one of you must return to the house and pack a bag for a period of some nights away. Although it is not technically the scene of a crime, I suspect that neither of you would wish to stay there just now.”

“Indeed not!” Charlotte Beringar said forcefully. “But where shall we go? I do not wish to call unannounced on any of our friends.”

I handed her the card. At times like these I really wished that I had Watson with me; his solid and unimaginative presence would surely have soothed the ladies.

“When you are finished packing please come back here, and I shall obtain a cab for you both”, I said. I gestured to the card. “That hotel is where I recently did a small service for the manager Mr. Johns; ask at the desk for him by name, show this card, and he will supply you with a room free of charge.”

“But sir....”

“I insist”, I said firmly. “Besides, once this story reaches the papers then they may send journalists round to ask questions. And that cannot be long; I have seen a small crowd gathering outside already. They will of course lose interest after a few days, but I would not wish either of you dear ladies to be subject to that. Doubtless Inspector Morton will send someone to collect your statements later today, and that would be much better done away from the eyes of the press.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Inspector Frank Morton did surprise me in one way that day, as he was for once not wearing his usual terrible brown suit, having replaced it with a smart green tweed one. Having dispatched the Beringars to their hotel, he and I went to their rooms to survey the scene of the (possible) crime.

“They could have tidied him up a bit”, Morton grumbled as he and I gently lifted the body and laid it out on one of the beds (having first checked that there was no bleeding; I did not wish the Beringars to get _that_ sort of welcome-home present!). 

I glanced out of the window, and sighed. The crowd outside 221A was even larger now. Luckily we had been able to avoid them as Mrs. Harrison had let us through the normally locked connecting door, and Morton's unconventional dress sense had meant that the arrival of a London inspector had not been noted. 

I began to examine the dead man. He had been in his early twenties and there was something distinctly foreign about him with his long nose and over-perfumed auburn hair. He was wearing a shabby suit and Morton rummaged quickly through the pockets.

“At least your ladies found a clue for us”, Morton said, leafing through a rather tatty wallet. “A card; 'Mr. Nicholas Davies'. He does not look like a Mr. Nicholas Davies.”

I had been examining the dead man's hands, and now turned my attention to the discarded suit jacket.

“That is because he is not”, I said. Morton stared at me.

“How can you know that?” he asked.

“Look at his left hand”, I said, raising it for inspection, “and the wear between the thumb and forefinger. This man is clearly a clerk of some description as he writes for a living. Yet his house-keys were in his right-hand jacket pocket. Clearly they must have fallen out when he was moved and have been replaced by a right-handed man, who placed then where he himself would have kept them.”

Morton whistled his approval. 

“So he _is_ a foreigner, then”, he said. “Can't trust them an inch!”

Morton, for all his abilities, had always been a little xenophobic. I wished that Watson could have been here to examine the body, although fortunately I knew the signs of what had caused this man's death.

“Definitely one of the more unusual causes of death, especially for someone of his age”, I said. “He died of a heart-attack.”

Morton stared at me.

“But he can't be more than thirty-five!” he protested.

“It may be that there was a congenital weakness in his heart, which gave way under a level of stress that a normal man could have coped with”, I said. “I would recommend a _post mortem_ to make certain but there are no wounds or injuries on his body or at least none that I can see, and no signs of poison having been administered. Unless that attack was induced in some way by someone who had prior knowledge of his weakness, this man died a natural death.”

“Then what the blazes was he doing in those ladies' wardrobe?” Morton demanded.

“The Beringars were kind enough to provide us with information as to the name of the shop that produced both wardrobe and corpse”, I said, unfolding a piece of paper. “I think that I might take a stroll over there. Who is the local sergeant, do you know?”

The inspector looked at the address on the paper.

“Penrose, up at Milton Avenue”, he said without hesitation. “A good sort; bit young but he knows his stuff. You'd definitely do well to talk to him before you go onto his patch, though. He's very protective.”

“I shall so do”, I said.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

I could not but view Sergeant Lorimer Penrose without thinking of Friend Watson's remark from a year before. We had encountered a particularly rotund criminal, and he had quipped that the fellow may have been the inspiration behind a recent set of advertisements by a pastry company asking 'who ate all the pies?' Clearly Sergeant Penrose had had more than his share of them. I smiled at the memory and hoped my friend was being successful in his transatlantic endeavours.

“I've read all about you in the good doctor's stories, Mr. Holmes”, the sergeant said, looking me up and down. “Have you reason to think that some crime was committed on my patch?”

“That is a difficult question to answer”, I said. “It may even be that no crime was committed at all. But until I visit Goring Street, I cannot know for certain.”

“I'll come with you”, the sergeant said. “That road used to be my beat when I started here so I know it well. I'll just let them know I'm off out first.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Goring Street turned out to be relatively not unpleasant for the area, much to my surprise. Sergeant Penrose caught my expression.

“It used to be worse”, he said, “but a fire came through twenty years back and destroyed a lot of the old buildings. They replaced most of the factories with new houses. Where you want is one of the few that survived the fire. Place used to be a huge warehouse but they converted it into three smaller units.”

As we stood before an old building I saw what he meant. The right and central parts of the edifice had been taken over by a stonemason's workshop, which was clearly very busy. To the left was the antiques shop that the Beringars must have purchased their wardrobe from. 

“As I thought”, I said. “Sergeant, if these were all one building would there still be access between the three businesses in there now?”

“I don't know, sir”, the policeman admitted.

“Then let us find out!” I said, striding towards the antiques shop.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

It said something for the London gossip network that even though the story of the body in the wardrobe had not hit the newspapers as yet, the shop owner Mr. Felix Leowitz knew what had happened. He was about fifty, greying and sharp-eyed. I felt instinctively that this man could probably sell me London Bridge if he put his mind to it.

“Such a tragedy”, he said, leaning on the counter as he spoke to us. “May I presume to ask a question?”

“Of course”, I said.

“Was the wardrobe locked _before_ Miss Beringar opened it?”

I thought back to the ladies' statements.

“Yes”, I said. “I asked her that when I saw her off to the hotel, and she said that she had had to get the key from the removal men.”

The shop-owner looked meaningfully at us both. I belatedly understood his hesitation.

“What is it?” the sergeant asked.

“The wardrobe was not locked when Mr. Leowitz saw it off”, I said. “Yet when Miss Beringar went to open it in her room, it was. Therefore something happened between the shop and her room, and only the delivery men had the key.”

“Or Fred's men”, Mr. Leowitz put in. We both looked at him in confusion.

“Who is 'Fred'?” I asked.

“Mr. Leighton, owner of the stonemason's next door”, he explained. “The wardrobe was a bit big for my own door – I'd fitted one of those fancy top parts to it and it would barely fit through – so Fred offered two of his men to carry it round the back and through his works, out to the men at the front. It was safer that way.”

I saw the sergeant's eyes light up.

“I think that Mr. Leighton might just have a few questions to answer”, Morton said. 

“One more question if I may”, I said. “Do you happen to know if a Mr. Nicholas Davies works in the stonemason's?”

The shop-owner looked surprised.

“No”, he said, “but he is the owner's brother-in-law. I hope that he is not involved in this business; I had always thought him a decent fellow.”

“I hope so too”, I said.

We thanked the man for his time, a coin changed hands and we left. I hesitated outside the entrance to the stonemason's.

“Our victim worked here”, I said.

“How do you know that?” the sergeant demanded.

“Because as well as the ink-marks on his hands, there was also a small quantity of stone dust ingrained under his finger-nails”, I explained. “I thought as much, and they do indeed work Chilmark stone here. He worked as a clerk, but some of the dust would have got into his office. The question is; how exactly did he meet his end?”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Mr. Frederick Leighton was not pleased to see us, though he could hardly say so openly.

“I am very busy, gentlemen”, the man said. He was about forty, heavily tanned as if he had been in foreign parts, short and muscular. The other man in the room was much taller, paler and rather anaemic-looking, though of about the same age. 

“My brother-in-law, Mr. Nicholas Davies”, Mr. Leighton said, clearly reluctantly. “Gentlemen, can this not wait?”

“No”, I said curtly, “ _this_ cannot.”

I sat down in one of the chairs, and stared thoughtfully at both men. There was a pained silence.

“I do hope that you are both aware”, I said slowly, “that the concealment of a death is in itself a serious criminal offence, regardless of any involvement in causing that death. Your only hope is to come clean with us and tell us what happened, gentlemen. Otherwise the full force of a criminal investigation will be visited upon these works, with all the publicity that that would entail.”

Mr. Leighton flushed a horrible shade of white. His brother-in-law scowled, and stood up.

“Threats will not avail you here, Mr.....”

“Holmes”, I said. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Please sit down, Mr. Davies. If you must start moving dead bodies around then you must expect the consequences to be somewhat unpleasant.”

The man scowled again but sat down. Mr. Leighton sighed.

“We didn't know”, he said flatly.

“Fred...” his brother-in-law began.

“No, Nick”, the manager said sternly. “He's right. I suppose it was my fault, sort of, but I didn't think.....”

His voice trailed off, then he seemed to pull himself together.

“We had a rush consignment the last few days, shipping to a Norman cathedral with the boat leaving noon today”, he said. “Everyone was stressed out, even though I'd promised the men ten per cent extra in their pay packets if we met the deadline. We barely did, with twenty minutes to spare.”

“Perhaps you had better tell us who the victim was”, I prompted.

“Tom MacHeath, an Ulsterman”, the manager said. “We employed him three months back because he was a wizard with figures, though he was so anal about it – the merest ha'penny discrepancy and you'd have thought it was the end of the world!”

“Ha'penny wise, pound foolish”, I said.

“You may be right”, Mr. Leighton conceded. “Just as we were racing against the clock and looking like we might lose, he decided to make a fuss about another problem that he claimed to have found. I just wasn't in the mood, so I.... I did something rather petty. I placed one of those toy spiders in his ledger, the ones that bounce up when released. I thought it would just give him a shock!”

“It did”, I said. _“A fatal one!”_

“I wasn't to know!” Mr. Leighton said defensively. “Nick was with me when I found the body, and we... well, we panicked. Then I remembered that that idiot Jew next door was having someone come and pick up a big piece, and that he had asked if they might come through my works to get it out. It was just too easy. Nick and I went round there, took the wardrobe into our works and put the boy inside it.”

Mr. Davies put his head in his hands.

“Your attempt to give the man an alternate identity by placing one of your own cards in his wallet was ingenious”, I said, “though ultimately it enabled us to confirm your involvement. “And it was _you_ who put the keys back into the dead man's suit pocket when they fell out.”

Mr. Davies looked at me in astonishment.

“Fingerprints I suppose”, he muttered.

“Actually no”, I said. “Mr. Leighton here worked with Mr. MacHeath. He would have known that the man was left-handed, whereas you instinctively placed the keys back in his _right-_ hand pocket, and he did not notice your error.”

The taller man groaned.

“This is all very well”, Sergeant Penrose said, “but a crime has been committed here.”

“The problem is that a jury would likely not convict”, I said, “and all that would be achieved would be a lot of damage to this business which would harm the innocent men who depend on it for employment. I have a better suggestion. Did Mr. MacHeath have any relatives?”

“Only his grandmother”, Mr. Leighton said, “and she came over with him. Reluctantly; he said that she always missed the Emerald Isle, and she would have gone back if it hadn't have been for him. Probably will now.”

“Very well”, I said. I fixed the owner with a stern glare. “Mr. Leighton, this is _your_ mess, and unless you want a criminal charge and the almost certain ruination of your business, _you_ will have to fix it.”

The manager went pale again.

“”You will pay for Mr. MacHeath's grandmother to return to Ireland”, I said firmly, “and you will cover _all_ the funeral expenses, even if she wants him buried in his homeland. You will then set up a fund to provide her with a generous pension for the rest of her life. Otherwise” - I shook a warning finger at the manager - “like the body in the wardrobe, the truth will out!”

“It shall be done!” Mr. Leighton said fervently.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Mr. MacHeath's grandmother was a Mrs. Ringwould and she did indeed wish to go back to Ireland. She was some seventy-four years old but she defied expectations (and quite probably the hopes of Mr. Leighton's wallet) by living on for a further nineteen years. Soon after she passed on Mr. Leighton sold his business and emigrated with his brother-in-law to western Canada, where both remain to this day.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩


End file.
